


Dracarys

by doucherepellent



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2018-12-21 16:18:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11947992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doucherepellent/pseuds/doucherepellent
Summary: The Great War has ended, but what happens now? How will the Westerosi, so accustomed to war and violence, reconcile and rebuild? What happens if the fight isn’t over?





	1. The Long Farewell

**Author's Note:**

> I've not read the books, so I apologize for any inconsistencies. This will be a Jonerys piece. Enjoy my tears :)

The day was crisp and cold as it rose above King’s Landing, the kind of morning sunlight that Cersei could cut with the jeweled dagger clutched in her palm. A scroll lay crumpled at her feet, edges yellowed and damp with rain — a warning, too late, from Jaime.

The Silver Queen and her savages had defeated the Night King.

If there was ever a Night King — strange things lay beyond the wall, howling for the rise of Winter, but Death was something cold and unmoving, painted stones on coffins and brittle bones. Whatever monster had fought in the Great War, he was surely no different from the giants or the stone men.

Didn’t matter now.

Jaime’s scrawl seemed almost warm under her fingertips as she traced it with her thumb. It was always disastrous — i’s drifting hopelessly into l shapes; he was much better at cutting and slashing, swordplay and fistfights.

And backstabbing, she reminded herself.

She dropped the scroll to the stones beneath her feet, and stepped to the terraced window, vines beginning to droop with frostbite.

_C —_  
_Night King defeated. Targaryen marching with 10,000 troops & dragon to King’s Landing. Flee.  
_ _— J_

And yet — he still signed the letter J, like he did when they were children. J used to be her favorite letter — the curl reminded her of the way Jaime smiled sideways at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. Her heart pounded in her chest, and it was only when the lines in her palm began to sting that she remembered the dagger clutched in her hand. 

Jaime had never been strong enough to do what needed to be done. 

And what was to be done? The raven's message was dated days past; any moment, fire would wreathe Flea Bottom and burn its way up to the Red Keep.

Good.

Let it burn and scorch and slice; cleanse King’s Landing of the vermin clinging to its spine, of the loving and the hating and the clink of coins and goblets and sword on sword — she was sick of it. No matter finely woven her embroidery, there was always a thread out of place — one that dislodged another thread, and another, and another until her hems trailed the mud.

Let them burn, and their children with them — she would be with hers.

On cue, the horizon erupted into flames.

“Sir Gregor — when they come, kill Jaime first.” The form crouched by the door frame shifted slightly.

Sunlight began to stream through the unbarred window; the sun had risen above the turrets and bathed everything in honey. She turned to the rising sun, let warmth drip onto her cheeks and mingle with tears. The dagger she poised to pierce cloth glinted with multicolored malice. Cersei closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of fresh snowfall — it smelled almost like infant hair.

Tommen.

Let it be like Tommen’s end, she thought.

The dagger clattered to the floor, jeweled reflections dancing, and before the Mountain could spring to save his Queen, she tumbled, crown and all, through the tower window, falling to the sound of a dragon’s roar and the smell of her son’s infant hair.

When the sunlight hit the street below, the dead queen’s hair glowed golden like the crown lying in the snow beside her.


	2. Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys returns to King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'd like to apologize for any inconsistencies with the book and/or the TV show! This is my first fanfic, so any feedback would be appreciated. (Also, expect more Jonerys in coming chapters).
> 
> EDIT: Revised for inconsistencies :)

On the walls of King’s Landing, guardsmen burned like torches, flailing to rip off armor as it kissed their skin with heat. Daenerys watched, clutching Drogon's rippling velvet scales with her ungloved hands.

They didn’t die like Wights, or even like the Night King when Jon cut him with Longclaw — the didn’t shudder forward even after their arms lay in heaps behind them; they didn’t dissipate into cold winter air. They screamed — a scream so pure with pain and terror that it rang through Daenerys’ skull. 

She wanted to hear more. 

Let them die for their crimes — let them suffer for their treason. Blood began to sing in her ears, heavy with the crackling of burning flesh.

“Dracarys.”

Drogon dove from the cloud cover once again; arrows bounced uselessly from his hard underbelly or tore through his wings — fly-bites, no more, but it enraged her nonetheless — and together they lit the wooden watchtowers topping the wall into a ring of fire around the city.

_More,_ Drogon begged beneath her, scales warm beneath her fingertips.

_More,_ sang her father deep in her pulsing veins, humming with delight. They were traitors. But she was not that kind of Queen.

Daenerys pointed to the city gates — the Northernmost Dragon Gates, opening their maws to the Kingsroad and Daenerys’ awaiting army. Drogon dove, wind running wild fingers through his streaming scales and the Queen’s silver hair. They landed with a thud in front of the gates and waited for the soldiers scaling the wall to wheel open the portcullis.

“I’ll see to it that you’re brought all the sheep you want,” she promised Drogon, though the wool would stick in his teeth for days.

Through the open gates, King’s Landing glittered in the early morning sunlight, arrayed like a lazy lioness trailing her tail into the sea. Drogon roared.

They were home.


	3. The Bastard King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon/Aegon's POV.

Aegon watched as the walls of King’s Landing erupted into flames. It was almost beautiful, the way that she moved with Drogon — a beautiful, terrible dance. 

His Queen.

How would he tell her? How would he tell her that his name was Aegon Targaryen, that the blood running in his veins was her blood, laced thick with fire. They hadn’t talked since the Night King had been killed — they hadn’t talked, but sometimes she would catch him staring, catch him wondering if the curve of his jawline came from her, came from her family and her bloodline. 

_The Targaryens have always married each other,_ he tried to convince himself. But the thought made his stomach rise with bile — and how would her subjects react? Another incest-loving queen on the Iron Throne. 

He was getting ahead of himself; nothing that had happened since the defeat of the Night King had even hinted that she was interested in him, much less that she would consider _marrying_ him. He should let it go — 

But the sunlight glinting in her hair was stuck on the back of his eyelids. No matter how hard he blinked, he couldn’t shake the remnants of her smile from his eyelashes; he couldn’t scrub her scent from his skin. 

And when he looked at her, she never looked away, not like other people. Around her, he wasn’t a King or a bastard.

But he wasn’t a bastard anymore.

He was Aegon Targaryen. And she — her voice rang clear and cold though the morning air as she sat perched atop Drogon in the city gates. A crowd had gathered before her, frozen as if she were some sort of demon, ragged people spilling out into the wide streets like tumbling molasses. After all of the lies Cersei had told about her barbarian army and slaughtering dragons, bringing Drogon and burning the guards mightn’t have been her sharpest idea, but she had been insistent.

“I am Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, The Unburnt, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regnant of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons, and I am your Queen.”

The crowd grew still. Drogon curled his top lip, revealing a line of brownish fangs and snorting hot breath on the onlookers, and they fell to their knees. 

Though he was stationed behind her on his black stallion, Aegon could picture her sideways smirk. It was the smirk she gave when she knew she’d won.

“Bring me Cersei Lannister.”


	4. The Lion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been a while — I've been applying to colleges.

Jaime’s horse shifted uneasily beneath him, shying away from the growling dragon silhouetted in the city gates, and even as he dipped his chin with the rest of Daenerys’ army, he searched among the crowd for his true queen, his lioness. He hoped desperately not to find her — she should have run.

He had written several different versions of the letter — some long, some apologetic, some angry, some loving — and he almost didn’t send any letter at all, but he knew that he couldn’t bear to see his sister burnt, not after seeing the dragons’ violent splendor firsthand. No matter how much she deserved it. No matter how much innocent blood stained her hands and her lips.

His tongue felt thick in his throat. She had killed men and women and children — she had almost killed him — and when a group of soldiers and civilians had tried to ride north and join the fight against the dead, she had hung them all, in front of their wives and children. She had left their bodies in the square for days.

Days before their journey, Daenerys had summoned him and Tyrion, face etched with grave fury. The way her lips pursed with anger had almost reminded him of Cersei, but he had pushed the thought away in guilt. Cersei, whom he had betrayed. Cersei, whom he loved. Cersei, who, according to Varys’ spies, had strung up innocent men.

“I’m going to kill your sister,” Daenerys had said. Her hands rested calmly in her lap. She had said it as if she was telling Jaime she was going to take a walk — simply, matter-of-factly — and it frightened him. But what frightened him most was that he was glad. Some little, evil part of him wanted her dead.

“I cannot think of another way, but I’d like to tell you out of deference. I am sorry for your loss.” Logically, what Daenerys said made perfect sense — if she made an example out of Cersei, others would hesitate to revolt. If she killed Cersei and only Cersei (excepting soldiers, she had remarked offhandedly, sentencing the guards to die with a casual grace), she could spare the other nobles, ultimately saving lives. And as long as Cersei lived, she would strive for the throne and make allies. Cersei had to die.

Tyrion had nodded, and Jaime couldn’t not find it in himself to blame him for being complicit in their sister’s death. And Jaime had nodded, too, filled with rage and hurt and hungry for revenge, but eventually, the guilt ate away at him until he had sent the raven to Cersei.

And now — now, Jaime wasn’t sure what he wanted. He wanted her to run, to be safe, to live a life free of betrayal and hurt and court, but he knew she could never — she was made to be queen; she would never stop wanting the throne. But surely he didn’t want her dead?

“Bring me Cersei Lannister.” He grasped the reins in his left hand, his grip tightening. Lannister, Daenerys had said. Lannister. A Lannister like him and Tyrion and Tywin. A Lannister first — not a Baratheon. And Lannisters, he knew, always paid their debts. If she lived, Cersei would hunt him. If she died — she wouldn’t die. She couldn’t.

Silence reigned for a few uncomfortable beats, then, out of a side alley, boots sounded, echoing eerily against the stone.

Thump, thump, thump. Daenerys shifted in the hollow of her dragon’s neck. The crowd began to mutter uneasily — then, behind them, a towering soldier appeared, cradling a small, broken, golden-haired lioness in his arms.

Cersei. 

_Cersei._

“Cersei!”

Jaime hadn’t realized he had shouted until he was off his horse and halfway to his golden queen. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Daenerys hold out a hand in a command for her soldiers to let him pass, and hot tears began to gather on his lashes. She looked so frail in the armored arms of the Mountain, and all he could think was that she deserved a better resting place — better arms to die in. His arms.

But when he reached her, she was long dead, hair damp with snow and ash. He felt for her pulse, but in the space where her shoulder met her throat — the space that he had memorized, kissed, loved — there was only cold, smooth skin. 

Jaime couldn’t breathe. His lungs pumped and he gasped but he couldn’t breathe and he couldn’t see and he couldn’t hear. All he could see was her lips, frozen in a half-smile. He bent down and pressed a kiss to her lips — obscenely long, no matter that she was folded like paper in the Mountain’s arms — but it only served to remind him that she was dead, that she was gone. He had killed her.

And then he screamed — at himself, at the Mountain, at Daenerys Targaryen.

_“What did you do? You son of a bitch. What did you do? You killed my sister. You killed her.”_

When his throat became raw, he stopped, panting, lips salted with sweat and tears. The Mountain knelt, and laid Cersei in the thin layer of snow, the gentleness of his touch at odds with the harsh lines of his armor and the red of his eyes, glinting beneath his visor. _That should have been Jaime, laying her on the ground. That should have been him._

The Mountain stood.

And then — and then the whole world watched as Ser Gregor Clegane stabbed Jaime Lannister in the gut with a jeweled dagger — the whole world but Jaime, who had eyes only for Cersei, even as he slumped to lay beside his sister, staining her golden hair with his red Lannister blood.


	5. The Pack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya arrives in King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please excuse any typos (I wrote this in a hurry). Don't worry — more Jonerys coming soon!

The horse panted beneath Arya, his brown pelt shining with sweat. Her thighs chafed with every bump, but she pressed her knees tighter against the stallion’s warm ribcage and urged him onward, away from the setting sun which cast the fast approaching sea and city in a surreal pastel glow. The pale sandstone towers and turrets seemed to sprout from the shoreline like strange, gnarled trees, ominous and wondrous at the same time. Arya imagined she could smell King’s Landing from here, though it was miles away still: the reek of fish and sweat and sewage; the soft, flaking bread filled with buttery cheese; the exotic fruits of summer; the mixed tang of blood on wood.

Her father’s blood. Her father, who had died here among these strange stone trees and the smell of summer.

Arya’s lingering excitement vanished with the remaining rays of sunlight, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. Unconsciously, she slowed her horse a mile yet from the city. She could turn back. She could turn back now, become someone new — mayhap another young girl or a lord — but no. Her list was not yet finished. Arya breathed deeply through her nose, and imagined that the coppery tang clinging to her nostrils was the blood of Cersei Lannister. 

Arya had thought carefully about how to do it — she could cut off her head, like Cersei had with Arya’s father — but that was too fast. She could kill Jaime first and use his body to do it; she could push Cersei off the Red Keep. But no — what she really wanted was revenge, and revenge was not so easily collected as a face from a cold body.

The North-most city gates approached rapidly. It was not Lannister flags that hung from the battlements, but the crimson and black of the three-headed Targaryen dragon. Arya had half expected as much; she had been traveling in the wide, grass-trampling footprints of Daenerys Targaryen’s army that was one or two days ahead of her. Arya smiled, rummaging in her saddlebags for the face of a middle-aged, balding man. She held it up carefully, stroking the blue veins and paper-thin skin etched with fine wrinkles before placing it over her own. It was a strange feeling, losing herself. She felt her middle grow bulbous and pop one of the buttons on her unisex tunic, and her chin prickled as a ragged beard sprouted from her skin. She readjusted her seat on the horse uncomfortably, shifting the spread of her legs, and nudged the stallion forward to the gates.

Guards, armoured in black, stood atop the gates, monitoring the steady stream of travelers, occasionally calling “Name and business?” to shift looking men or single women. Arya made it by without notice, and peeled off the man’s face in an alley as soon as she entered the gates, tucking it carefully back into her saddle bag. The city was almost exactly as she remembered it — ugly and reeking of death. She straightened, not letting herself think too much about her surroundings, about her father. She looked down at the cobblestones beneath her. The _clack cluh-clack_ of her horse’s hooves was drowned out by far-off noises. Here, though, not one person frequented the streets; the roads that were usually packed thick with peasants echoed with a relative quiet. Families hid like mice in their homes, peering from curtainless windows with curious dread at her passing form. Even beggars huddled limply along the edges of the road, watching her from under dirty brows. Arya looked only at the stones below her and thought only of Cersei.

But in order to find Cersei, she would have to get through Daenerys Targaryen.

\--

The young dragon queen was more beautiful than the stories said. In the dim twilight, her silver hair and violet eyes seemed to glow with an ethereal light; the curve of her lips seemed frozen in an ironic smile. Arya stopped halfway to the Iron Throne and bowed, perhaps more shallowly than was demanded of her status. The throne room, naturally, was beautiful in a terrifying sort of way, but Arya paid it little heed; her attention was reserved for the rather small figure seated stiffly in the metal seat, robed in a pale gray gown and cloak.

It was Tyrion who had let her into the throne room; he had recognized her and pulled her into a rough embrace that she had snaked away from as soon as was acceptable. She didn’t dislike the man, but she harbored no love for him, either, and tonight the only Lannister she wanted to see was Cersei.

“Your Grace,” Arya said with a dip of her head. The queen’s strange purple eyes seemed to rake over her as if they were hands.

“Arya Stark,” she murmured; Tyrion must have informed her of Arya’s arrival and identity.

Arya made no move to affirm Daenerys’ statement. A silence fell over the hall in which the two women regarded each other, the wolf circling the dragon, searching for a weakness in which to strike. Arya desperately wanted to look away from those strange, violet eyes, but she held her ground, her hand comfortably on Needle’s hilt.

“I suppose you are here to see Jon,” the queen said finally. “He will return soon from a meeting; I’ve taken the liberty to summon him for you.” The soft familiarity with which Daenerys said Jon’s name filled Arya with an irrational jealousy; she pushed it away. They had been traveling together for months; it was only natural that they became close.

Arya didn’t deny it; in fact, she yearned to see her brother, to fold herself in his arms and feel his rough stubble on her cheeks. She longed to cry with him and tell him of the Faceless Men and to scream at him for not being their for Father or Mother or Robb; instead she merely tilted her head, evaluating the queen.

“I’m here to kill Cersei Lannister.”

Daenerys Targaryen did not laugh, and at the moment, Arya felt a strange sort of kinship. It almost seemed as if the queen believed her. They were two wild animals, struggling to remain untamed in a world of gaudy silks and groping men.

“Cersei Lannister is dead,” the queen said, her voice flat and dismissive, though Arya could spot a familiar spark of victory in her eyes.

Arya did not speak. Dead. Slightly disappointed, she checked Cersei Lannister off the list.

The doors to the throne room creaked open once again, and Arya turned to leave without saying goodbye.

But there, in the doorway, stood a burly figure draped in furs, a figure with long hair and boots who smelled of ice and pine.

 _Father,_ Arya thought, before realizing that, no, this was Jon — this was Jon. _This was Jon._

Arya couldn’t help herself. For a moment, she didn’t care about the young queen who she had turned her back on; for a moment, she didn’t care about the list or Cersei Lannister. She ran to him, launched herself into his coat and his ice-and-pine scent, and, for a precious moment as his arms folded around her and lifted her from the ground, everything was right in the world. Father would come laughing around the corner with Rickon on his shoulders; Sansa would call _Mother!_ in a petulant whine and Mother would indulge her; Robb would roll his eyes. 

“Jon,” she breathed into his stubble. He was warm and solid and she shut her eyes tight, relishing in the feeling of weightlessness.

“Arya,” he returned, his breath warm against the crook of her neck.

“They’re all dead, Jon,” she whispered, and for the first time, she didn’t feel anger, eating at her belly; she felt hurt, deep and raw. “You and me and Sansa and Bran — we’re the only ones left.” The truth of the statement pulled the breath from her lungs, and, just like that, the familiar anger returned, anger that she fed and stoked with relief. She knew how to handle anger — but the sadness, the loneliness —

“You’re the only ones,” Jon murmured, so quietly that even Arya could barely hear it. He pulled back from the embrace until her face was cupped between his rough palms. For the second time, Arya thought he looked like Father. It wasn’t the beard or his sharp brows or dark lashes — it was the weariness etched into his eyes, the exhaustion swimming in the black of his irises. 

“What?” Arya whispered.

“ _You_ are the only ones. Arya, I’m not your half-brother — I’m your cousin.”

And then a weight lifted from Jon’s eyes and he held her face in his hands and, on the Iron Throne, Daenerys Targaryen cleared her throat.


End file.
